Like Beaters Bats to Bludgers
by strangefellow45
Summary: It can be a struggle to put together a Quidditch team, balance a love life, and rebuild after a war. Oliver Wood knows this. Follow Oliver and his new team as they work to get the world turning again after the Battle of Hogwarts. Rated T for language, rating subject to change. OW/MF Contrary to how it looks, this story IS NOT ABANDONED. Life had just gotten on the way.
1. One heck of a way to start the day

Hello and Thank You for reading my fic _Like Beaters Bats to Bludgers._ It is my first work here on and I can't wait to hear what you think of it! For legal reasons, I need to say this **I DO NOT OWN HARRY POTTER OR ANY OF ITS CHARACTERS. THEY BELONG TO J K ROWLING.** That being said, there are quite a few OCs in this story and they do belong to me, but if you want to use them, let me know and just give credit to me for their creation. Please read and review, and above all, ENJOY!  
-LINE BREAK-

The picture itself is terrible, honestly. The lighting in it is shit and the film is so grainy that Oliver is surprised that anyone can make out his face. But then again no one really has to _look_ at the picture to reach a conclusion, the Daily Profits headline does that well enough:

 **Puddlemere United's Resident War Hero, Gay?** The name on the byline comes as no surprise to Oliver when he checks to see who wrote the article. _Fuck Rita Skeeter and the hippogriff she flew in on_. Looking back at the picture Oliver mentally adds, _And the person who gets you your photographs, fuck them too_.

How on earth Rita got her hands on the photo, Oliver does not know. It is an old one from his Hogwarts days, and even with the grainy film and the shit lighting, there is no mistaking Oliver in his Quidditch uniform. Because even if no one can make out Olivers face, having his name stamped across his back in gold (although in the black and white picture it looked grey) lettering really is a dead give away.

Oliver supposes that, were he not so angry at the invasion of his privacy, the picture could be considered sweet. Picture Oliver has his back to the camera, sitting on a bench in the locker room, almost shoulder to shoulder with another boy, each boys body turned just enough that their knees are touching. Their faces are turned so that they can see each other, and every once in awhile their hands can be seen tangling together in the space between them. At one point in the photo loop, picture Oliver leans forward and gently places a kiss on the other boys lips before resting his forehead on the boy's shoulder.

A chime sounds in the kitchen, alerting Oliver that someone is flooing in. With a sigh Oliver lifts himself from his chair to face the fireplace. When the green flames die down, Oliver is greeted with the sight of James Bernaw, his (currently) highly disgruntled team manager brandishing a copy of The Profit.

Fifteen minutes later and Bernaw leaves in a worse mood than he arrived in, three of Oliver's dining room chairs are broken along with a hideous vase that Oliver received as a housewarming gift, and Oliver himself is left standing silently in the wreckage that was once his kitchen. Because yes, Oliver did see the front page, no he did not read the article which apparently covered his date last week with the very cute and very male store clerk from Flourish and Blotts, that no Oliver was not going to publicly announce that he was going through an experimental phase because he did that experimenting back at Hogwarts thank you very much, yes Oliver is saying that he is gay, and if that is the way Bernaw is going to take it then he can go and burn Oliver's contract with the team.

All in all it was not the way Oliver thought he was going to start his morning.

OWMFOWMFOWMF

James Bernaw stepped out of the floo with a scowl on his face Wood, fucking Oliver Wood. Did he not understand how this made the team look? Puddlemere has a reputation to uphold, an image to maintain, and this certainly broke the image.

"Morning James," a voice calls out.

"Sod off Helga," James snaps, muttering under his breath about Wood and being better off without him.

Stomping into his office, Bernaw proceeds to the contract cabinet labeled **Puddlemere United** , and begins searching for the name Oliver Wood.

Finding the offending document takes little over thirty seconds, and soon the paper is burning away in his office fireplace.

OWMFOWMFOWMF

Helga Masterson is a kind person by nature, but being a woman in the world of professional quidditch means that she also has to be resourceful. Never let it be said that Helga Masterson is not resourceful. So when she sees James Bernaw burn the contract of the best keeper Puddlemere has seen in years through a door that was left ajar, Helga knows that she has to act and fast. Preferably before Bernaw pulls his head out of his ass and realizes the PR nightmare that he has on his hands.

Quickly running to her office (if you can call the glorified broom cupboard that she was given an office) and scoops up a blank contract, before rushing to the nearest floo, grabs a handful of floo powder, and says "Oliver Wood Residence" and disappears in a rush of green flames.

OWMFOWMFOWMF

For the second time that day, the floo chime sounds in Oliver Woods kitchen. Sighing, the Scott puts away his wand, all of the chairs now back in one piece and all the pieces of the vase in the trash (bless his mum, but it really was hideous). A moment later and a small witch comes stumbling out of his fireplace, her soft brown hair falling into her face as she tries to steady herself.

"Oliver Wood I presume?" The witch asks once she stops stumbling.

"Aye, and you are?"

"Helga Masterson, Team manager for the Burrtown Badgers". The witch - Helga, Oliver tells himself - holds out her hand for Oliver to shake. And because Oliver's mum raised his a gentleman, he takes the slightly sooty appendage and gives it a squeeze. The squeeze he gets back is far stronger than what he was anticipating and Oliver finds himself adding pressure out of habit (say what you want, but the opening handshake between team captains is a big part of intimidating another team).

"Good handshake," Helga smiles at him.

"Not so bad yourself," Oliver replies goodnaturedly.

"I play reserve beater for the team when we get desperate enough," Helga says with a laugh.

"Can I get you a drink of water while we discuss you visit Ms. Masterson?"

"Helga please, and no thank you. But you are right, to business." And with that Helga grabs a recently repaired chair and plops down, her face set as she motions for Oliver to sit down.

"I want you to play for The Badgers," Oliver blinks at her.

"I know we are a start up team, nowhere near as big as Puddlemere but frankly Bernaw is a fool who never deserved you if he thinks that -"

"Hold on," Wood interrupts, "You want me to what?"

"I want you to Play for The Burrtown Badgers. Bernaw just burned your team contract, I watched him do it, and I -"

"Want me to play for your team. I got that part, thanks. My question is why?" Oliver fixes his brown eyes on the small witch in front of him. "You watch a player have his contract torched and your first thought is 'I need to sign him'? "

Helga looks at Oliver, her blue eyes finding the brown ones across from her, and sighs.

"Mr. Wood, I am not an idiot, nor am I deff. Bernaw stormed into his office muttering about ruined images while destroying his morning copy of The Profit. I know he caned you to avoid a scandal, one that Puddlemere United cannot afford. We - The Badgers - are still young enough that we don't yet have an image to ruin. Hell at this point any press is good press. I personally do not care which team you play for, just which team you play on, if you catch my meaning." Helga sighed again, and tucked a stray lock of brown hair behind an ear before continuing.

"Now if your termination had had anything to do with your performance or anything that actually impacted your ability to play Quidditch then you can rest assured that I would not be here. No, that's not entirely true, I suppose that my decision would depend on the performance issue in question and the other variables surrounding the- but that's, I'm off topic and blabbering. My point is, your contract was terminated due to a factor that does not affect game play."

"But why now? Why not wait?"

"I am here now because as unlikely as it sounds, Bernaw will eventually pull his head out of his ass. When he does he will find himself in a worse PR nightmare than the one he was trying to avoid, and the easy solution is to get you to re-sign with P.U., issue a formal apology to the press about being a backwards bigoted bastard, and get a 'candid' picture shaking your hand showing the world how you made up. I don't think I have said this yet, but you are a damned good keeper Wood, and as soon as word reaches the other teams that your contract was burned you will have more owls and floo-calls and howlers than you can possibly imagine. I just got here first before the crowd." Helga sits back in the chair and shrugs, then adds "And to be perfectly honest, if I can't get a reserve lineup signed before the season opens, The Burrtown Badgers will be forced to disband."

The room is quiet for some time, Oliver deep in thought, and Helga watching him think. After what feels like hours, but is was probably only a minute or two Oliver speaks.

"So I'll be playing reserve Keeper?" Helga grins and pulls out the roll of parchment from her robes along with a self-inking quill and hands them both to Wood.

"No, our keeper Alice Wildman is going on maternity leave, can't have a pregnant woman playing Quidditch now can I? Not that she didn't argue for it. No, you will be on our main lineup for the foreseeable future as Alice wants to raise her children herself." Oliver smiles at the witch across the table and begins signing his name on the parchment.

"I'm affraid that the pay won't be anywhere close to what you were making with Puddlemere U. Like I said, we are a fairly new team and don't really have big backing, but we do cover cost of living well enough and medical bills - Oh, initial at the end of that line, by the date thanks - not to mention cost of transport. Not that that comes up often, we mostly Apperate and floo to our destinations. Although we do sometimes have to fly if the match is too far away and the portkey location is rather out of the way-"

"You're rambling again," Oliver points out, and laughs at the color red Helga's face turns as he hands back the rolled contract.


	2. Meeting The Badgers

This is the second chapter of my story _Like Beaters Bats to Bludgers._ **Disclaimer:** **I do not own Harry Potter** , just a Slytherin Quidditch Jumper. I do however own The Burrtown Badgers, so if you want to use them, PM me and you will probably get my permeation to use them. As always, read and review. Enjoy!

-LINE BREAK-

It takes half an hour before James quits muttering under his breath and begins to calm down. He is still furious, but at least that is an improvement over murderous. But all the problems are Wood's fault. Yes, Puddlemere is down a keeper, but it wouldn't have happened if Wood had just sucked up his pride and lied. Although, in retrospect, Bernaw can see how Wood might have taken offence to that idea. Or any of the insults that followed. _Did I really call him a bent bowtruckle that couldn't tell its ass from a quaffle?_ With an internal cringe that may have made its way onto his face, James Bernaw leaps from his chair and grabs up a blank roll of parchment. Hurrying out of his office, Bernaw jumps into the nearest available floo that he can find.

The rehearsed apology that Bernaw had planned in the thirty seconds it took to get to Woods house dies on his lips upon entering Woods kitchen and is quickly drowned out by the sound of laughter coming from Helga and the snorting laugh that Oliver makes into his tea cup.

"Too late, love," Helga manages to choke out in between laughs "Afraid he has already signed with me."

The choked sound that emanates from Bernaw's throat only serves to make the pair laugh harder.

OWMFOWMFOWMF

It was decided by Helga that Oliver would meet the team that night to celebrate his signing at a little pub called Orion's around seven. Oliver was familiar with the place, good food, not too loud, although Helga assured him that once the team got there the noise level would change.

Seven o'clock rolls around too soon for Oliver's liking, and he finds himself standing just inside the door of the pub, scanning the crowd.

"Ollie!" Cries Helga when Oliver spots her and another witch sitting in the far corner booth, waving him over.

"Good to see you again Helga,"

"Back at you, Wood." Helga greets with a smile.

"Bugger me, Helga. You told me you got a replacement Keeper, you didn't say you were replacing me with Oliver Wood!" The other woman exclaims as Oliver takes a seat on the other side of the booth.

"You must be Alice Wildman than," Oliver says, extending a hand over the table.

"In the flesh," Alice grins.

"Helga tells me you are expecting. How far along are you?"

"I am, yes. Twins. About a month and a half. My husband is so excited." And Alice was off telling pregnancy stories and talking about the joys of being first time expecting parents.

"You know I always thought nesting was something the mother did, but with the way my husband is acting-"

"Butterfingers!" Helga shouts, arms waving over her head, effectively cutting Alice off mid sentence.

Butterfingers, it turns out is another member of the team. A small Irish Woman with short blonde hair, Oliver finds her sliding into the booth next to him.

"Lee Anne Conners," the blonde says shaking Oliver's hand, "But call me Butterfingers, everyone does."

Soon enough the rest of the team arrives, Joing Au from London, Mally Jones from America, Jean Oget a burly frenchman from Normandy, Catherine McDonnell from Glasgow, and Louise Maxwell from Liverpool.

"Andy and Matt say hello and sorry that they can't be here, but that they will see us on the pitch next practice." Mally says to the table at large, and upon seeing Oliver's face she adds "Andrew Johnson and Matthew Hayes, our reserve Chasers."

"What position do you play Mally?"

The American grins, "Au, Oget and I are chasers." The Frenchman nods around his Butterbeer.

"What about you Lou?"

"Cath and I are beaters. You already know our reserve beater Helga."

Talk dies down once the food came out, but not for long.

"I've been meaning to ask," Oliver says around a mouthful of fish and chips, nudging Butterfingers with his elbow, "How did you get to be a seeker with a name of Butterfingers?"

"Easy," the blonde responds, "I got the job before the name."

"You know better than most that many people didn't get through the war unscathed," Helga jumps in. "About three months into the New regime she was cornered by a group of Snatchers. Had to fight her way out."

"All things considered, I was lucky. The only thing I was hit with was a modified _Digitorum Cadnut_. Its not a nice jinks, makes your fingers fall off, but it could have been worse." Butterfingers continues. "Lucky or not, I still needed a place to stay while my fingers grew back, hurt like a bitch let me tell you, so I crashed at Helga's."

"One night over dinner after my fingers had grown back, we learned what _Digitorum_ had been crossed with. I swear to Merlin and Morgana, I don't know how these two spells were mixed, but it turns out _Digitorum_ was crossed with _Sternumenta_." Oliver chokes on his drink.

"It was mixed with the sneezing hex?" He asks incredulously once he can breath again.

"Aye," laughs Lee Ann, "You can see where this is going, can't you? So we were sitting there at the dinner table and as I reach over to grab a plate of something, I sneeze, and my fingers - my pointer and middle fingers on both hands - fall off and into the butter dish. Hence Butterfingers."

The night ends around eleven, and the group begins to split up each with a designated apparatior (because apparating while drunk is like begging to be splinched). Alice grabs hold of Mally and Oget says her goodbyes and disappears with a POP. Joing gives Oliver a hug before taking Catherine and Louise by the elbows and turns on the spot. Helga and Butterfingers are standing by the floo ready to leave.

"Remember, Butterfingers will be flooing into your kitchen around twelve tomorrow to take you to get fit for your Quidditch robes." Helga says with a quick hug.

"I will also be getting your official statement for the press while we are out. Do you have any requests as to which paper you want the statement to go to or who you want to do the interview?" Lee Anne asks from where she is leaning on the fireplace mantle.

"Anyone other than The Profit and Skeeter," Oliver responds.

Lee Anne snorts, "Aye, I think I can manage that. How do you feel about The Morning Scry?"

Oliver considers for a moment, The Morning Scry is not a very large paper, but then again every other paper is small in comparison to The Profit.

"I don't really read The Scry, but from what I have read it seems to be reputable."

"The Scry it is then," Butterfingers says, clapping her hands together.

"Alright you two, I'm off." Helga interjects, giving the keeper and seeker one last hug before stepping into the floo and vanishing in a rush of green fire.

"I know Helga said to expect me around twelve, but I will probably be at your house around ten to discuss how the interview will go." Butterfingers says as she backs into the fireplace, and with a two finger salute she disappears.

As Oliver stumbles out of his kitchen fireplace seconds later and to his bedroom, he has one thought on his mind. Not how I thought my day would go at all.


	3. Bernaw Strikes Back

Wowza! Three chapters up in one day! Don't expect it to happen all the time, I just have a working computer right now. As before, **I still don't own Harry Potter.** Enjoy this next chapter.

-Line Break-

The next morning, Oliver wakes with a headache. Not the worst he has ever had, certainly not near as bad as the getting hit in the head with a bludger, but persistent. Casting a quick Tempus charm, Oliver finds that it is almost nine in the morning, plus or minus a few minutes. Stifling a yawn, Oliver gives a quick stretch, arching his back like a cat only to stop mid stretch at a sound from the kitchen.

As quietly as he can, Oliver grabs his wand and creeps to the kitchen, all of his experience from the war kicking into action, ready for a fight. Oliver's stealth however is undermined when he steps on a loose floorboard, the squeak sounding more like a cannon blast.

"It's just me, Wood." a familiar irish voice calls into the hall. Forgoing his stealth, Oliver rounds into the kitchen to see Lee Anne sitting at the table, dressed in muggle clothes, a cup of tea resting in her hands. Wand still drawn, Oliver asks: "What name did you call me at the pub last night and what happened just before?"

Butterfingers looks up, spots the wand leveled at her head and glances at Oliver's face. With a sad sigh, she shrugs.

"That's fair, I suppose. I called you Outlander, after Helga spilled her firewhiskey into Alice's lap."

Slowly, Oliver lowers his wand and opens his mouth to apologize but is cut off Lee Anne.

"You don't have to say sorry, I understand. I lived through the same hell that you did." Butterfingers smiles, "It's my fault anyway, should have owled ahead. I made tea if you want some." and the blonde jerks a thumb at the stove where the kettle sits.

After pouring himself a cup, Wood joins Lee Anne at the table.

"How long have you been here?"

"Long enough to boil water." She deadpans.

"I thought you said to expect you at ten," Oliver glances from his cup at the small woman.

"I did, but there has been a change of plans."

"Why?" Oliver looks up properly from his tea, "What happened?"

"Bernaw happened," and from an inside pocket of her jacket, Butterfingers pulls out a copy of The Profit. The headline reads: **Puddlemere Star Keeper Caned Due to Instability.**

"Second paragraph, I've highlighted the part I want you to read,"

Looking back down at the paper in his hands, Oliver begins to read.

 **"It was certainly a shock to me," James Bernaw, Puddlemere United's team manager told us. "I have never seen Wood like that before." According to Mr. Bernaw Wood had advanced on him, wand drawn, destroying several items in his rage. It is unclear what triggered this attack, but it "left me with no choice" says Bernaw. "I can't risk him going off like that during a game as he could potentially hurt himself and others."**

"I need you to be completely candid with me Wood," Lee Anne says when Oliver has finished reading, "did you have your wand drawn?"

"I..." Oliver thinks back to the other morning. There had been much yelling and insults had been thrown, and- "I think so, I know I broke at least a chair."

"Did Bernaw have his wand drawn? And I need the truth Wood."

"Aye, he did."

"Last question, and it is very important that you are sure of the answer - and I mean willing-to-be-put-under-veritaserum kind of sure. Do you understand?"

"Aye," Oliver responds with a nod of his head.

"Who drew their wand first?"

Oliver closes his eyes and casts his mind back.

 _Bernaw had stepped out of the floo brandishing the paper shouting about the headline and Oliver had waited for him to calm down some before even attempting to say something._

 _"Yes, I saw the paper."_

 _"Did you read the article?"_

 _Oliver rolled his eyes, "No JB, I just got my copy."_

 _"It talks about you, last tuesday, with some fellow at The Phoenix Perch, having dinner."_

 _"It what?"Boomed Oliver, grabbing his discarded copy from the table where he had left it, eyes going wide with anger as he read._

 _"Its outrageous, isn't it? Now we need to get ahead of this and-"_

 _"Ahead of what?"_

 _"The claim of course!" Shouted Bernaw, his left eye twitching faintly. "We can't have the papers spouting lies like this and-"_

 _"It's not a lie!" Bellowed Oliver in an attempt to be heard of Bernaw's thundering. Bernaw for his part went still except for his left eye which continued to twitch._

 _"You mean you had dinner with that man last week?"_

 _"Aye,"_

 _"Th-Then you are-?" James trails off, letting Oliver finish his question._

 _"Gay? Yes, I am."_

 _"But are you sure? All we need to say is that you are just testing the waters, so to speak and this whole problem goes -"_

 _"Problem?" I'm gay, not a closet alcoholic! Your'e going off about the papers spouting lies and your solution is to have me lie?"_

 _"ENOUGH!" Roared James, his eyes flashing and his hands fisted at his sides, his wand clutched in a white knuckled death grip, shanking-_

Oliver opens his eyes and finds Lee Anne watching him expectantly.

"Bernaw." he breaths out.

"Are you positive? Veritaserum positive?"

"Aye,"

Butterfingers gives a sigh that seems to come from the very bottom of her and scrubs her hands over her face. But when she drops them back to the table she is smiling.

"Good, that's good. I can work with that. You wouldn't happen to have an owl and spare piece of parchment I could use would you?"

Oliver nods his head once more and gets up to find the requested things. His owl, Magnus, a smallish grey barn owl, looks glad to have a job to do. Once in the kitchen he swoops over to Lee Anne and sits on her shoulder, intently watching her write.

"Who are you writing to?" Wood asks, curious.

"My reporter at The Scry. We're moving up the interview, doing it first and getting your version of events out."

"You can do that?"

Butterfingers looks at Wood with a smile and hands the letter to Magnus for him to clentch in his beak. Walking to the kitchen window she says "You are looking at The Burrtown Badgers offical Public Relations and Media Manager, of course I can." and lets Magnus go.

Ten minutes later and Magnus comes swooping back in through the kitchen window, a respond message tied to his leg.

"Fantastic," Lee Anne says once she has finished reading the letter. "He will be here at ten, so in about twenty minutes."

Turning back to Wood she grins.

"Not that I'm complaining or anything, but you might want to put on a shirt before he gets here."


	4. Enter the Reporter

And CHAPTER FOUR IS UP! Before I get into the boring part of my opening scrawl, I just want to take a moment to say THANK YOU to thatkindofgreen, johnsocz, and Aphrodite-Venus-u.k for their favorites, follows, and reviews. It means so much to me, thank you again! Now for the disclaimer, **I DO NOT OWN HARRY POTTER.** That being said, this is a short chapter in comparison to the first three, but there will be another chapter up soon. I also have posted a companion piece titled Career Fears that explores some of the ideas in this chapter. As always, Read, Review, and Enjoy!

-Line Break-

Marcus Flint had been surprised to see the headline of the Daily Profit on Monday. Well, not surprised at the headline, Rita Skeeter was always writing something scandalous He was more surprised at the photo that went with the article (and really, could Rita not find a better picture?). Despite the poor quality every time picture Oliver leaned in and kissed the other boy, Marcus could feel his guts squirm with regret. Because the picture was proof that perhaps if Marcus had not been the total jerk that he was back at Hogwarts, he might have had a chance with his long time crush. Not a huge chance, mind, more of a shadow of a ghost sort of thing, but a chance none the less.

Now Marcus will be the first one to admit that he is rubbish with spoken words, there is a reason he became a journalist. You get to plan out your questions ahead of time, and have time after to work on the best phrasing for an article. Looking back, trying to beat Oliver to a pulp every time he saw him was definitely not a good way of communicating his feelings to the keeper. But Marcus had been young, confused, and probably concussed at the time. Between these competing circumstances somewhere along the line feelings got mixed up and clouded by peer pressure. Words were hard so Marcus did the easy thing, he took out his confusion with his fists and on the Quidditch pitch. Yah, Marcus can admit that he pretty well screwed over any chance he might have had at the time.

So Marcus got to go through his monday filled with an underlying sense of regret, resigned to put his longtime crush out of mind until he could get a drink after work. That plan went up in smoke around twelve when word came that Wood had been tossed from Puddlemere and signed to a different team all in the same day. Now that was a surprise. Marcus remembered how good Wood was back at school, and last that he had heard, Oliver was still that good on the pitch. But the true shock and surprise came at eleven that night in the form of a letter tied to the leg of an owl.

It was the constant tapping that had woken him up. Groggily, Marcus sat up and peered through the darkness at his window where he could see a white owl waiting for entrance. Lighting his wand Marcus got up and let the bird in, untied the letter from the owl's leg and carried it over to a bird cage in the corner of the room. Marcus himself did not have a bird, but he got so many letters that it was simply easier to clean up a cage than the floor.

Sitting back down on the bed, Marcus opened the letter.

 **Hey ya Flint** , the letter began and Marcus knew instantly who had sent it to him. Lee Anne was a nice girl. She was strange, yes, prone to losing fingers, but nice.

 **How are you? I suppose that you have probably heard the news about Wood. About how he was caned from Puddlemere and signed with another team. I know word has not yet got out about which team he signed with, so I'm telling you: he signed with The Badgers.**

 **How Helga talked him into it, I do not know, but she did. I was wondering if you could do me a solid. We need to do an interview with Wood ASAP, and I was hoping you would be up to the job. Say tomorrow at one?**

 **It would mean a lot to me, and frankly neither Wood nor I trust The Profit to give him an interviewer other than Skeeter Bug after that rag she wrote today. To be honest, I don't trust her period.**

 **Let me know as soon as you can.**

 **Lots of love,**

 **Lee Anne**

Setting the letter down, Marcus sighed. There was no point in responding. Lee knew that he would be there for the interview, her asking was more of a formality than anything else. Getting up once more from his bed, Marcus made his way over to the writing desk on the other side of the bedroom and pulled out a sheet of parchment. While Lee may not need a response, his boss would need a reason for his being out of the office the next day. Walking over to the bird cage, Marcus held his arm out for the white owl and tied the letter to its outstretched leg.

"This letter goes to Jacob Ire, then you fly on back to Lee, alright? I don't want to get yelled at for losing her bird again." The owl gave a hoot in response and flew out the window. Climbing back into bed, Marcus gave another sigh. _Pull yourself together Flint. It's just a crush._


	5. Morning Musings

As promised, chapter five, and longer than the last one. This chapter is heavy on the Marcus, who - I admit - is probably out of character. Speaking of characters, **I DON'T OWN HARRY POTTER OR ANY OF ITS CHARACTERS.** I do own my OC's and if you want to use them, that is O.K. with me, just let me know. As always, Read, Review, and above all Enjoy!

-Line Break-

The day of the interview arrives, and Marcus is once again woken by the sound of tapping on his bedroom window. It's two owls this time, both brown, one with a letter in its beak and another with a rolled up newspaper tied to its leg. The tapping continues, getting louder the longer Marcus takes to get out of bed.

"Alright, I'm coming. Ruddy birds," He mumbles under his breath.

The first bird with the letter drops the envelope on the windowsill and ruffles its feathers importantly before flying off. The other bird waits for Marcus to untie the paper and holds out the other leg that has a little leather pouch, waiting for payment.

"one moment," he tells the bird, and begins digging through a drawer in the writing desk looking for three knuts to pay for the paper.

Only once the bird is satisfied that the proper payment has been made does Marcus grab all the mail (having learned the hard way that the birds are trained to bite until paid in full) and heads out to the small kitchen/dining room in his flat. The Letter is from his boss, giving Flint the all clear to miss (and Marcus has to laugh at the way his boss phrased it) as much time as he needs to flush this story out in full.

Marcus then proceeds to make tea and some eggs, not giving The Profit a second glance until the eggs are done. Sitting back down at the small table, Flint unrolls The Profit, only to choke on his tea at the headline. _Well this complicates things a bit_ , he thinks and begins to read the article. It is not a long article, and most of it is fluff for the gossip rag, but the second paragraph catches Marcus's attention.

Marcus Flint did not spend the better part of seven years in Slytherin house not to learn what a man covering his ass sounds like, and James Bernaw sounds like a man covering his ass

With another sigh, Marcus pushes the paper away and finishes his breakfast.

It takes a while before Marcus works up the energy to get up from the table. He is equal parts excited and scared to see Oliver today. On one hand, it's _Oliver_. Long time crush, and it will be nice to see him again. On the other hand, it's _Oliver_. Long time crush that he used to beat to a pulp, and Marcus would not blame the man if his first reaction upon seeing his school bully is to punch Marcus in the face. Heck, Marcus would even let him land the punch.

At some point, Marcus makes his way to his bathroom. Standing in front of his mirror, the dark haired man examines his reflection. Flint had grown a bit in his time away from Hogwarts, his face filling out. Marcus no longer looked gaunt, with sallow cheeks and sunken eyes that made him look like cross between troll and a mer. Although having his teeth straightened definitely helped with the troll bit. It was one of the first things Marcus did once he got out of Hogwarts. Reasoning that he was not at as much of a risk of having them knocked from his head working as a journalist as he would being a quidditch player, Marcus decided that having a better smile would keep him from scaring off any one he interviewed. At least until he starts talking; _a good smile can do a lot but fix a personality it cannot,_ Marcus thinks bitterly. His black hair had also grown out since Hogwarts, still wiry, but it hides his ears a bit better than before. With yet another sigh, the former Quidditch Captain turns on the shower and strips.

While waiting for the water to heat, Marcus turns back to the mirror. I could use a shave, he muses, running a hand over his stubble. He leans to sit on the edge of the sink and stays that way until he knows the water is warm. Stepping under the spray, Flint leans his head against the cool tile and begins his ritual. Going over questions he will ask, deciding on muggle dress or wizard dress, self inking quill or muggle pen? It is something he does every time before an interview, and something he has done from his first interview to settle any nerves he may be feeling.

The showers, Marcus has learned, is a good place to think. It was something he figured out back at Hogwarts. After a Quidditch game, as long as Marcus was the last one in the showers, he could take his time to think about the game without having to deal with other team members or excited housemates. He could think about what went wrong, where the team could use improvement, where the team was solid, if the new training program was actually working. The habit carried over into his post Hogwarts life.

 _Pens_ , Marcus decides as he is rinsing shampoo from his hair, _definitely pens_ , before shutting the water off and grabbing a towel.

Flint is standing in front of his wardrobe trying to decide between two muggle shirts when it occurs to him that Oliver is probably unaware that it will be him doing the interview. Deciding on the short sleeve black t-shirt and a pair of jeans, Marcus prepares to write a quick letter to Butterfingers warning her of the potential situation. The _I-might-be-punched-in-the-face-on-site_ situation. But just as he is getting the shirt over his still wet hair, an unfamiliar grey owl swoops in through the open window, letter in its beak.

Marcus isn't sure, but he thinks the bird is giving him the stink eye. Grabbing the letter, Marcus takes the bird over to the cage for some water and owl treats. Again, Marcus cannot be sure, but he thinks the stink eye goes away a little. Keeping one eye on the bird, Flint opens the letter.

 **Hey ya Flint,**

 **Change of plans. How soon can you come over to Woods house? You can get here by floo, the destination is "Oliver Wood Residence". Bring parchment, lots of parchment and your Big News Gear. The stuff you keep in your briefcase for big press events. I do actually need a reply this time. You can send it using the same owl I used.**

 **See you soon,**

 **Lee Anne**

Snorting at the blunt note, Marcus casts a quick Tempus and is a little surprised at the time. It does not feel like nine forty in the morning. Flipping the letter over, Marcus quickly scribbles:

 **Lee,**

 **No problem. I can be there at ten with my gear.**

 **See you then,**

 **Flint**

 **P.S. Oliver and I didn't get on very well in school at all. You might want to warn him that I'm coming. I would like not to get punched in the face today.**

Satisfied, Marcus folds up the letter and hands it back to the owl in the corner which promptly flies out the still open window. Slightly confused as to why he will need his "Big News Gear" as Lee Anne put it, Marcus grabs his brown attache case from next to the writing desk and sets it down on the table top. Opening the case up, Flint does a quick check of the contents. _Parchment? Check. Pens? Check. Notepad? Check. Press Pass and Other Identifying Documents In case Oliver is a Skeptic? Check. Veritaserum? Check. Glasses? Check._ Satisfied that everything is ready, Marcus shuts the case and waits.

OWMFOWMFOWMF

When Oliver returns to the kitchen, he is properly dressed and Butterfingers is busying herself at the stove making what Oliver assumes is food.

"Got a shirt?" Lee calls over her shoulder when she hears Oliver enter.

"And proper pants." Wood retorts.

"What are you making?"

"Omelets, figured you would be hungry."

When the food hits the table, both dig in.

"It was brought to my attention," Butterfingers says around a mouthful of egg and cheese "That you know the man I have coming to do the interview."

"Really?"

"Aye." The blonde nods. "The two of you weren't friendly to each other back at school, and he thought it best if you had some warning."

Oliver sets his fork down, puzzled. "Who is it?"

"Marcus Flint." she replies casually, watching Oliver's face for signs of , well, anything. Butterfingers is not disappointed. Wood's eyebrows knit together for all of a second trying to place the name before shooting up to his hairline and en back down into a scowl.

"Tell me you're joking,"

"That bad?"

"Well," Oliver pauses for a moment, considering. "Not anymore, I suppose. It has been five years. Although he did break a bone or two back at Hogwarts."

"From what he has told me, you gave as good as you got."

"That is true," Oliver bows his head in consent before turning back to is omelet.

"It has been one year, actually." Butterfingers states after a while.

"Pardon?" the Scott looks up.

"One year, since you were last around him. He fought in the battle of Hogwarts, part of the secondary wave. Took on a few low level supporters of the dark lord and such. Can't blame you if you didn't spot him though, it was a war."

Appetite completely gone, Wood pushes his plate away.

"I didn't know that," the Scott murmurs in a low voice.

"Don't think many do. He doesn't really like to talk about it. Can't say as I blame him."

The two team mates sit in silence for a moment, maybe three, before Butterfingers speaks again.

"Just don't punch him in the face when he gets here, alright?" And like that, the dark mood dissipates.


	6. The Interview (Part 1)

Behold Chapter Six. This one will be a two part thing. I cannot say when the next chapter will be up, but it will eventually. I still **DO NOT OWN HARRY POTTER OR ITS CHARACTERS**. As always, Read, Review, and Enjoy!

-Line Break-

Oliver meanwhile watches the two interact with interest. Well, he watches Flint mostly. Upon seeing Flint for the first time, Oliver's initial thought is _Well he grew out of his troll phase nicely._ Flints jaw no longer looks too big for his face, his jaw line strong instead of trollish. His light brown eyes shine in the light of the kitchen, as opposed to the dull muddy brown Oliver was used to seeing in the halls of Hogwarts. In short, Flint looks healthier than Oliver can ever remember seeing him look back at school, he looks more alive.

It comes as a shock to realize that Oliver did see him during the battle of Hogwarts, wand whipping through the air, snarl on his face. No wonder I didn't realize it was him, Oliver muses, He looks like a whole different person.

But then Lee Anne is running and launches herself Marcus, and if Oliver thought Flint looked good before, he is downright gorgeous when he smiles. Butterfingers says something and Flint responds, and Oliver is quickly reminded that this is the same Marcus Flint who tormented him at Hogwarts. It's the same voice that used to call taunts after the skinny Scotsman; the same voice that would set Oliver's teeth on edge. It's the same voice, only...different. Only his voice is happy, lighter somehow. Something has changed, that Oliver knows, but he's not sure what. Oliver does not get the time to wonder as the blonde witch sneezes, and the Scotsman has just enough presence of mind to watch as Lee Anne's fingers fall off in a flash of light.

OWMFOWMFOWMF

Oliver is brought out of his silent thought when Lee Anne starts talking to him.

"Hence Butterfingers."

"How long does it take them to grow back?"

"Eight days, two days per finger. Don't know why they can't grow back all at the same time."

The three stand in the kitchen for a while, Butterfingers in between the two men looking uncomfortable, the silence stretching. With a clap of her hands, Lee Anne breaks the awkward quiet.

"Well, I need to use the loo the before we get started. I'll just leave you two to get, um, reacquainted." And she hurries from the room.

"Flint,"

"Wood,"

"How the hell did you become a Journalist?" Oliver blurts out, looking slightly embarrassed at his exclamation.

"Why the hell did you sign for The Badgers?" Marcus shoots back, a small snarl beginning to form on his face. Shaking himself, Marcus takes a step back.

"This is not how this is supposed to go." Running his free hand over his face, Marcus sighs.

"Neither one of us are the same people we were back at school. I really don't want to get punched today, and with the way we are going, if you don't punch me, Lee will. Let me tell you, for a six fingered woman, she has one hell of a left hook." dropping his hand, Marcus looks Wood in the eye. "Want to start over?"

Oliver eyes Marcus, thinking, before shrugging.

"Why not?"

Flint sighs in relief, snarl replaced with a small smile.

"Marcus Flint," The dark haired man says extending his hand, "Field reporter for The Morning Scry."

"Oliver Wood," The Scot says, taking the offered hand with a small squeeze, "Keeper for The Burrtown Badgers."

The handshake is firm, but not bruising.

"You can come out now Lee, no one dies today." Marcus calls to the kitchen doorway and the blonde steps into view.

"That wasn't so hard now, was it?" She says and both men roll their eyes.

"Alright, lets sit and get this interview rolling. Can I get you tea Flint?" The Irish woman says with slightly more enthusiasm than Marcus thinks is necessary.

"No thanks Lee." Marcus says, pulling out a chair. Setting his briefcase on the table and opening it, Marcus pulls out his glasses and several sheets of parchment along with a pen. Placing his glasses on his face, Flint slides the pen and the first sheet of parchment across the table to Wood.

"I need you to fill this out for me, name at the top, signature and date at the bottom. It's a waver stating that you have agreed to this interview, you are not being forced to do this interview, that everything you say belongs to you, and that you are giving me permission to use anything you say. Keep in mind that if there is something you do not want to be used in the paper, let me know, and I will make sure that it stays off the record."

"Is this really necessary?" Wood asks, looking up from the page.

"No, but it is good to have. Protects both of us. If I go against any of the terms stated, you have proof. Works the other way too. If you accuse me of doing something, of writing something that you did not want told, I can say that you knew the terms." Marcus responds, looking up from the table in front of him where he was preparing pads of paper and parchment.

"You would be amazed how many people will claim that I broke contract. It's just good insurance. I do it with every interview I have."

"Alright," Oliver says, passing the pen and paper back to the dark haired reporter.

Marcus checks over the form, and satisfied that everything is in order he tucks the sheet back into the case and smiles.

"Everything is in order, let's begin."

"Is it true that you were caned from Puddlemere yesterday?"

"Aye," The Scott nods.

"Why?"

"Did you read Rita's article in The Profit yesterday?"

Marcus squirms internally thinking about the article, but nods.

"Well so did the team manager, James Bernaw. He came in screaming about it, demanding that we get a handle on the situation before it had a chance to ruin the team image."

"Ruin the image?"

"Aye, apparently my sexuality is detrimental to the image of any professional Quidditch team."

"So Rita got it right then? You are Gay?"

"I am. Bernaw was not happy to hear that. We exchanged words, they were heated and not very nice. I may have sugested that Bernaw could burn my contract, if he felt that strongly about the matter."

"Over your being Gay? Seems awful quick for that kind of anger."

Oliver pauses, unsure how to respond.

"If your not comfortable answering a question, you don't have to, you signed the contract."

"No, I'm fine. It's just, this was not the first altercation that I had with JB. They started two seasons after I had signed. Didn't think much of it at the time, what with The Ministry confirming You-Know-Who being back. Everyone was tense and prone to snapping. But looking back, the arguments were more than stress. We had one that was so bad, we came to blows. I think I broke his jaw, I know he broke my hand. I had to go to St Mungos have the bones vanished and regrown, second worst night of my life: Skelligrow may be effective, but it hurts." From next to Wood, Butterfingers makes a sound of agreement.

"And after the war?" Marcus prompts

"It got slightly better, but the arguments didn't stop. I suppose that this one was just the final straw."

Marcus nods, pen flying over a notepad on the table, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose.

"Have you met the team yet?"

Oliver grins, "I have, yah."

"If I can ask, why The Badgers? No offence Lee, but The Badgers are low in the league."

"None taken Flint," Lee smiles.

"How often do you get a chance to be a part of a brand new team?" Oliver shrugs. "When I was young, I would dream of starting my own team. Its not the same, but it's about as close as I will get. Besides, have you ever shaken hands with Helga? Damn convincing."

Marcus laughs, familiar with Helga and her handshake.

"Let's take a break." Butterfingers jumps in, looking between the two men.

Oliver gets up from his seat and stretches.

"You want that drink now?" He asks Marcus.

"Yes, thanks." Marcus says, taking his glasses off and setting them down next to the case.

"Tea or something else?"

"Tea is fine," Lee Anne answers for him.

"Oliver, where is the loo?" The dark haired man asks, getting up from the table.

"Down the hall, first door on the left." Wood calls over his shoulder from the stove where he is fiddling with the kettle.


	7. The Interview (part 2)

**Hello everyone! Sorry for such a long wait for a new chapter. Life has gotten pretty busy lately, mainly because I have been approved for my Colleges Summer Anthropology program in Ireland! It has nothing to do with either of my majors but I am so excited! It has been a lot of paperwork and a lot of time getting everything in order for the school seeing as I was on the wait list and only found out about two weeks ago.**

 **As for the chapter, if you see any errors let me know. I am only human and prone to make mistakes. I will try and have another chapter up some time soon, but if all else fails, I am aiming for one to two chapters a month. I don't own the characters of Harry Potter, just the ones that I have come up with. If you want to use them, send me a PM. As always Read, Review, and Enjoy!**

 **-line break-**

In comparison with Marcus's washroom, Oliver has the nicer of the two. Like every other part of the flat that Marcus has seen, the bathroom is light and inviting.

Flint is grateful for the break. If Marcus had thought that Rita's article on Monday had dragged up long suppressed feelings, he was wrong. Monday has nothing on the emotional hell currently rolling through the Hogwarts Alumni.

On Monday, Marcus could cast a silencing charm when someone started talking about Oliver and the paper and if the man he was seen having dinner with is his boyfriend. On Monday, Marcus could quickly flee the room if someone wanted to ask him a question about Oliver seeing as they went to school together. On Monday, both were valid options. Both are also really bad form during an interview, because if they don't piss off the person being interviewed, it sure as hell makes it damn hard to ask questions.

But today is not Monday. Today is Tuesday, and Marcus had agreed to the interview knowing that it meant he would be in close quarters with Wood. Knowing that he would just have to get over himself and his traitorous heart that _still_ flip-flops when he sees Oliver after telling himself for five years to _bloody well move on._ Knowing that hexing Oliver or running out of the room will mean having Lee Anne on his ass.

Splashing some water on his face, Flint looks up at the mirror and sighs.

"Do that too often dear and your face will stick." The mirror says.

Marcus casts a withering look at the offending object before heading back to the kitchen, feeling no better then when he came in.

OWMFOWMFOWMF

"So?" Butterfingers asks as soon as Marcus is out of earshot.

"So what?"

"Admit it, he's not what you expected." the excited irish woman states.

Wood shrugs from his position at the stove.

"I don't know what I expected."

"Yes you do," the blonde scoffs. "You don't want to say anything because what you expected wasn't nice."

"That too, I suppose." Oliver admits in a quiet voice.

"It's just," the scott begins, back to the kitchen table and by extent Lee Anne "He was horrible to me. Just horrible, and it started long before either of us joined the Quidditch teams. As the years went by, it didn't change. When he got held back a year, I wanted to scream because I had to put up with one more year of his teasing." Oliver takes a breath, back still turned, his head bowed. While Lee Anne can't see his face, she imagines that his eyes are closed as he thinks about all the things that happened. "He showes up today and he's nothing like he was. I'll admit five years is a lot of time, and I know people change, I just never thought he would. So you tell me, what was I supposed to expect?"

The kettle on the stove whistles, but Oliver does not move to take it off the heat. The tall Scott is so lost in his thoughts that he does not hear Butterfingers get out of her chair or walk over to him, jumping slightly when a three fingered hand gently touches his arm and a head is rested on the back of his shoulder.

"Nothing," a soft voice says in Woods ear, before Lee anne pulls away with a squeeze to the scott's arm.

OWMFOWMFOWMF

Marcus steps out of the bathroom and is halfway back to the kitchen when Oliver's voice brings him to a stop. "-And I know people change, I just never thought he would. So you you tell me, what was I supposed to expect?"

Flints heart drops to his stomach. Marcus is not a fool, he knows who Wood is talking about, and the keepers words only confirm what Flint has known for years. It is a truth that Marcus has long since come to terms with, that he is not a person that people believe capable of change. It still hurts to hear Wood say it.

Walking into the kitchen with a face that does not betray the ache that he feels, Marcus smiles at Lee and accepts the cup of tea that Oliver hands him.

"Has anyone ever told you that your mirror is sarcastic?"

"Aye," Oliver responds with a grin. "All of them are. Right pain some mornings."

"I like your mirrors" Butterfingers tells Oliver, a matching grin on her face.

"That's because you have never had one call you color blind before a date. They are right pieces of work, I tell you."

"Which is why all my mirrors are muggle."

"Your mirrors are muggle because you have no sense of adventure," Lee shoots back, to which Flint rolls his eyes.

"Putting on a shirt while an inanimate object gives you fashion advice is not an adventure, Lee, just annoying."

"That's because you've never let your mirror pick out an outfit for you."

"Put it that way, I suppose you're right. A highlighter yellow cable knit sweater, orange cargo pants, red scarf, and green wellingtons definitely qualify as an adventure."

"That was a fun one,"

"You looked worse than any wizard trying to dress in muggle clothes than I have ever seen."

"Would you believe that I had asked my mirror to help me dress like a muggle?" The blonde smiles over her cup of tea.

"Lee, you're muggle born. Why would you ask your mirror to help you dress like a muggle?" Marcus asks, an amused and slightly confused expression on his face.

"You've had this argument before, haven't you?" Oliver pipes up from his seat next to Butterfingers.

"Once or twice, yah." Marcus grins at Wood.

"Back to the interview do you think?" Butterfingers asks, previous train of thought forgotten.

OWMFOWMFOWMF

"Is it true that you had your wand drawn during your argument with Bernaw?" Marcus states.

"I did, but so did he. When we were arguing, I called him a liar, and well, he didn't like that. He drew his wand on me, I must have pulled mine out."

"Hang on," Marcus cuts in, his apprehension of being around Wood forgotten for the first time in forty eight hours.

"You are saying that Bernaw drew his wand first?"

"I am," Oliver responds. Flint and Conners share a look over the table, well, Oliver supposes, it's more of a moment. The two share a silent conversation, Lee Ann shaking her head and Marcus tilting his ever so slightly to the left. Butterfingers raises one eyebrow to which Marcus raises both of his before letting them furrow and nodding his head to one side slightly in assent. All the while Oliver watches with something akin to interest were it not mixed with trepidation.

The Slytherin is the first to break the strange spell at the table and turns his attention back to Wood.

"Would you be willing to go under Veritas Serum?"

"I'm not giving testimony,"

"No," Flint agrees, "But you have not told me that I cannot have this tidbit published, and I'm going to be honest with you, I will publish this bit of information unless you say otherwise. By going under serum, should Bernaw choose to claim defamation of character by spreading lies, you have protection. Indisputable proof that you are telling the truth."

"I did ask if you were positive," Lee Anne says with a small smile.

Grudgingly Oliver nods permission, and Marcus smiles. It's the same smile that he gave Butterfingers earlier, and Oliver feels a little overwhelmed by it. But as quickly as the feeling comes, it goes, and Marcus is passing a roll of parchment to Oliver along with a pen.

"Another one?" Lee Anne asks in slight disbelief.

"Yep, it is a release of liability on my part. It says that I have not forced anyone in this room to do anything against their will. You get to sign one too."

"Why me?" THe Irish woman asks taking the offered roll of parchment.

"Witness. I am required by law to have at least one witness who is not myself."

Oliver and Butterfingers pass the rolls of parchment back, and after going over them once, MArcus hands over a small vial of clear liquid.

"Three drops is all it takes. Do you still have some tea in your cup?"

The tea is cold when Oliver drinks, and while he knows intellectually that the truth serum has no flavor, a small part of his mind can't help but think that it makes the tea taste strange.

"Alright, I will ask you a few control questions first. Standard procedure, then I will ask you some questions regarding the fight you had yesterday. Name?"

"Oliver Wood."

"Where did you go to school?"

"Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,"

"What house were you sorted into?"

"Gryffindor."

"During the fight yesterday, did you draw your wand?"

"Yes,"

As Marcus asks his questions, his glasses slip down the bridge of his nose.

"Who drew their wand first?"

"Bernaw did,"

"Did he fire any hexes?"

"Yes, so did I. He fired the first one, flipendo, broke a vase. Broke a few chairs too."

"Has he ever pulled his wand before in one of your fights?"

"Once, someone came in before we could actually get going to much, kept the fight from escalating."

"When was this?"

"Three years ago,"

"Thats enough," Lee cuts in before Marcus can ask his next question. "Do you have what you need?"

"I do, that was my last question anyway." The brit responds, head bent over a sheet of paper, his glasses still slipping down his nose.

"Do you have the antiserum? I have to take him out in public to get his robes fit, and I would like it if he were able to defend himself verbally if he needs to."

At this Flint looks up, glasses so far down his nose that Oliver can clearly see his eyes above the rims.

"Oh! Right, sorry." Marcus turns to his briefcase and begins rummaging through it. Eventually the larger male pulls out a small blue bottle.

"Give me your hand, Wood." slowly Oliver extends the requested appendage, and Marcus carefully lets three drops of the slightly blue liquid fall onto the open palm.

"That should do it, but just incase, give it a half hour and don't wash you hands."

"Executive call, that's the end of the interview." Lee Anne tells the two men.

"How soon do you think you can get this to print?"

"If I work through the night," Marcus considers, "I can get you a copy by three AM, just in time for general circulation tomorrow morning."

Lee Anne looks at the tall brit in surprise.

"That soon?"

Marcus shrugs, "Not like I'm working on any other stories right now." Turning to Oliver the burly man adds

"Once this goes to print you are gonna need to hide like a demiguise. I met Bernaw once, he had to be in control the entire time; I had to sit where he wanted, shaking hands with him was... well...like us back at school. This goes to print, and he is going to be worse than a fwooper with a pixy on its tail." Oliver nods his head in agreement, but Butterfingers just looks confused.

"Translation for the muggle born in the room?"

"It's a rude way of saying that Bernaw is going to get loud, dangerous, and will drive you insane." Oliver clarifies for the blond.

"Sounds about right," Lee adds after considering for a second. "So we get you fitted for the team uniforms today, but you can't stay here for at least a week. When you're not at practice that is."

"Is it really - " Oliver begins, but Butterfingers cuts him off.

"Necessary? Stories like this are career enders, Outlander. Bernaw ain't gonna take that sitting down. No, better safe than sorry."

"Then where do I stay?"

Lee Anne considers for a second, drumming the three fingers on her left hand on the table.

"You'll stay with Joe Blake."

"Now wait just a second Lee," Flint roars, brown eyes flashing.

"HE can't stay with Helga or I, we will be the first people Bernaw is going to go to."

"What about the rest of the team? One of them has to be willing to-"

"It's not a question of willing Marcus. This will be the first time The badgers are really in the news. Every last one of us will be swarmed with reporters. You know that."

"Lee-"

"You listen here Bucco," Butterfingers hisses at Flint, lunging over the table, little finger pointing threateningly at the larger male.

"He's staying with you." Marcus stares down at the finger that is a hair's breadth away from the rim of his glasses.

"Seven days, that's all I'm asking."

Slowly, Marcus nods and Butterfingers lowers her hand.

"Go and pack a bag wood, enough for a week."Oliver does not argue, even missing fingers, Lee Anne Conners exudes authority.

When Oliver returns, his two guests are chatting as if nothing happened.

"Wood," Marcus says standing up from the table, case in hand. "What time do you think you will be flooing over to my flat?"

"How does six sound?"

"Perfect. Floo-phrase is 'Flint Apartment 5'".

Turning to the small witch Flint says "always good to see you Lee."

Stepping into the Kitchen floo, Marcus waves one last goodbye before disappearing in a rush of green flames.


	8. An Irish Outburst

**Hello everyone! I am so very sorry about the long wait for an update. I swear, it was not my intention to let this story go for so long. But life thankfully has gotten back into a more or less regular pattern. And updates** ** _should_** **be more consistent from now on. So here it is my first update in a while. Fair warning, I use some phrases that I picked up in Ireland in this chapter and they require some context for the chapter to make sense.**

 **"Fecking eejit"- Fucking idiot of monumental proportions**

 **"I'm alright Jack," – A sarcastic phrase that roughly means "You know what, I'm good, so fuck you"**

 **It's not a long chapter, and for that I am sorry also. As always read, review and enjoy! If you want to use one of my OC's send me off a PM. Thanks for staying with this fic, it really means a lot to me.**

-line break-

"Yous deserve each other," Are the first words to leave Lees mouth once Marcus is gone.

"I'm sorry?" Wood asks, his eyebrows knitting together in a look of confusion.

"You heard me," Lee shoots back from across the table.

"Never, in my life have I met a bigger pair of fecking eejits. The cowardly Lion, and the bashful snake."

"What are you talkin about?"

"Och. Well, Marcus will probably want my hide for telling you this," Lee says, pinching the bridge of her nose with the thumb and ring finger of her left hand.

"Then you probably shouldn't –"

"If I don't then you will have to be around an uncomfortable Flint for a week and not know the reason why. Trust me, this is the better alternative. And while Marcus will want my hide, he won't get it. He owes me for being his tutor at Hogwarts."

Oliver just watches the small witch, eyebrows still furrowed, but more in curiosity then confusion.

"My fellow snake has had a crush on you the size of a Ukrainian Iron Belly for years. He ain't ever been the best with spoken words. He still ain't if I'm being honest."

"Marcus Flint," Wood says in a slow voice, emphasizing each part of the name as he does so, "Has a crush on me?"

"Aye, and unless I've become pants at reading people in the last five hours, so do you."

"You're mad."

"As a Fwooper, but then again I already knew that."

"I don't know where you got that idea from, that Marcus Flint of all people-" Butterfinger's tone which had been friendly shifted to affronted fast enough to give the Scotsman whiplash.

"I got it from him, but you know, I can tell when I'm preaching to a brick wall that don't give a flying rats ass what I have to say. I'm alright Jack." And with that, the small which placed her hands on the table and stood up and all but marched to the fireplace.

"So on your feet Scotsman, we have a busy day ahead of us."

"Doing what?" Oliver asks hesitantly even as he rises from his chair.

"We have to get you measured for team robes," Lee responds, in a voice that is perfectly friendly. It worries Oliver, if he's being honest, how fast the small woman goes from being pleasant to terrifying.


End file.
